Sithis and Sweetrolls
by Moonsong Lunaris
Summary: P'sharra is a Khajiit with a distinct liking for gold. When she accepts a contract from an orphan, she will find herself in an unexpected position, that may lead her to a treasure greater than all the gold in the world.
1. Chapter 1

Rumor was that the Aretino boy was up to dark mischief. Word on the street claimed he was calling for the Dark Brotherhood. Whispers murmured that the place was haunted. P'sharra didn't care; she only cared for herself, and for money.

And murder meant money.

She slipped through Windhelm silently, the deep, cloudless, moonless night allowing her copper fur to blend with the shadows. She froze as a voice drifted through the night, a boy-child, speaking with his nanny.

They were speaking of the Aretino, the nanny acknowledging the rumors as truth, and leading the boy away.

P'sharra waited till they turned the far corner, then slid from her shadowy hiding place. The door was locked, but the tumblers gave way easily under ministrations. She slipped inside.

The place was dark, and dusty. A muffled voice chanted from overhead. P'sharra's irises widened, and the room slid into sharp relief as she ascended the stairs.

She turned the corner and froze at the odd sight: a boy, kneeling over a manikin made of human flesh and bone. "Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me," he chanted, his voice breaking, "For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear... Oh, why isn't it working?" he wailed softly, turning to a book that lay hidden in the boy's shadow.

He flicked through the pages almost feverishly. "The effigy made from real human parts, got that... Ring of candles, check... nightshade petals rubbed on the blade, it's all done perfectly! _Why_ won't the assassin come?" he looked on the verge of tears, then jolted as he caught the movement of P'sharra stepping closer out of the corner of his eye.

"Who- you- you've come! You've finally come! The Black Sacrament worked!" The boy- Aventus Aretino- leapt to his feet, a wide smile on his face. "Finally, an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood! You'll accept my contract!"

"Yes..." P'sharra murmured, "The Brotherhood... the Sacrament..." She purred as she stepped into the candlelight, crouching to look the boy in the eye. "So, Aventus... What contract do you have for me?"

"Well, my mother, she... she died," Aventus murmured, "I... I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that- that terrible orphanage. In Riften. Honorhall."

P'sharra growled low in her throat; she knew what it w'as to be orphaned and unwanted.

"The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman," Aventus' face hardened. "They call her Grelod the Kind. But she's not kind. She's horrible. to all of us."

His face brightened like clouds uncovering the moons. "So I ran away, and came home. And performed the Black Sacrament." He grinned widely. "Now you're here. And you can kill Grelod the Kind!"

P'sharra murmured her acceptance of the offered contract, and slipped out of the house.

It was pouring rain when P'sharra arrived in Riften. Her ears were flat against her skull and a low growl rumbled out from her chest continuously. She _hated_ the rain, with a deep and burning passion.

She tugged the hood of the monks robes that she wore up, protecting her head from the falling water. It had been noon when she arrived, and the rain promised to continue well into the night.

P'sharra slipped through the marketplace, ignoring shopkeepers and customers alike, her gleaming eyes focused on the building just across the canal. Reaching the doorway just as another deluge poured down, she slipped inside.

Whipping her tail vigorously dry out her fur, she slipped deeper into the room, her sensitive ears perking at the sound of a harsh voice.

"Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating," the voice snarled. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Grelod." A chorus of fearful voices rose in unison as P'sharra peaked 'round the corner.

"And one more thing!" A cruel smile quirked the cornes lips. "I will hear no more talk of adoptions! None of you riff-raff are getting adopted. Ever!" The children winced. "Nobody _needs _you," Grelod drawled as she paced before the children, "nobody _wants _you."

She stopped and turned back to the group. "That, my darlings," she sneered, "is why you're here. Why you will _always _be here, until the day you come of age and get thrown into that wide, horrible world."

The cruel smile crossed her lips again. "Now, what do you all say?"

"We love you, Grelod," The children droned, with the tone of having done so a thousand times before. "Thank you for your kindness."

"That's better," Grelod barked. "Now scurry off, my little guttersnipes."

The children began to mill about, as another woman moved forward to corral them. P'sharra approached her, first.

"You really shouldn't be here," the woman murmured as she noticed the khajiit, "Grelod doesn't care for visitors..."

"Is she always like that?" P'sharra questioned, gesturing to the wicked old crone.

The woman sighed deeply. "Sadly, yes. Even the townsfolk have taken to calling her' Grelod the Kind.' Her very existance is a sort of a running joke." She ran her fingers through her hair.

"She seems to hate children," P'sharra murmured, "so why is she even here?"

"Grelod runs this orphanage because she's old, and set in her ways, and doesn't know any other life." She fidgeted with her ear. "These children need love, and comfort. I try, but..."

"What is your name?" P'sharra interrupted.

"Constance," She replied without thinking. then she blinked. I'm sorry, you should be going." She glanced towards a set of double doors Grelod had gone through. The children aren't up for adoption, and it's cruel to get their hopes up. Besides, Grelod-"

"Hates visitors," P'sharra finished for her. "I'll be on my way soon. I have some... business with Grelod to attend to, first."

Constance frowned in confusion. "Are you with the temple of Mara?" she asked, taking in the khajiit's robes.

"Yes," P'sharra lied smoothly, "I intend to try and sway Grelod from her cruel ways."

"I wish you luck with that," Constance sighed. "You wouldn't be the first to try."

"Believe me, child," P'sharra purred. "When I have finished, this orphanage will know only love and kindness."

It was child's play to pick the lock on Grelod's door. Constance had taken the children outside for some fresh air, despite the rain, offering P'sharra the opportunity to work uninterrupted.

She slid silently into the dim room. Grelod sat at a table, facing away from the doors, cackling over a great pile of gold. "Those brats," she chortled, "bring in a fine bit of gold for me from running odd jobs." She swept the gold into a coinpurse.

P'sharra snuck close behind her. Quick as lightning, she clamped a hand over the crones mouth. "Aventus says hello," she hissed into Grelod's ear, earning a muffled cry of surprise. "And so does the Void."

P'sharra dragged her prized glass dagger across the wretch's throat, and ruby drops showered the table and wall, staining both. Grelod thrashed in her death throes, gurgling as she drowned in her own blood.

P'sharra stood, wiping her blade clean on her robes. The sound of a door banging open startled her, and she turned to find her face to face with the orphans. One of them stared down at the corpse and P'sharra's feet.

"She's dead," the girl whispered in awe, "Grelod the Kind is dead!"

"He did it," A boy cried, "Aventus did it!"

A cheer rose, and the children rejoiced. Constance caught sight of Grelod and screamed, cowering away from the sight.

"Be still, foolish girl!" P'sharra hissed. "I've no quarrel with you. Aventus called for her death, and I answered. Besides," she purred as Constance tried to control her trembling, "now you can give these poor children the love and care they deserve."

"Why?" Constance faltered. "Why spare me? Or the children?"

P'sharra paused at the door. "Because," she whispered after a moment, "I know what it's like to live in their shoes." With that, the khajiit slipped from the orphanage.

The Bannered Mare was loud, between the bards and the drunken louts trying to sing. P'sharra sat in the back corner, nursing a tankard.

The Aretino boy had been ecstatic at the knowledge that Grelod was dead. He'd given P'sharra a platter, claiming that it was a family heirloom. "This should fetch you a nice price," he'd promised.

"Certainly. A nice price. If you're poor," the khajiit grumbled. "Fifty drakes, bah. Last time I help anyone..."

She glanced up as the door opened. A young man entered, and P'sharra ignored him. Until he made a beeline for her. She realized it was a courier.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," he murmured gently, "But are you P'sharra?"

"I am," she replied carefully.

The courier sighed in audible relief. "I've been looking forr you, you're a hard woman to find." he dug into his bag. "I've a letter I'm supposed to deliver- your hands only." He drew a folded bit of paper and handed it to her.

"Who is this from?" P'sharra questioned.

"Don't know," he replied. "Creepy fella, black robe. Couldn't see his face." He shuddered. "Paid me a pretty sum to get that into your hands, though."

P'sharra sent him on his way, then rented a room from the innkeeper. Safely locked inside, she opened the note.

It bore two words, and a hand print. P'sharra dismissed it as a joke and tossed it on the table. She readied for bed and slipped beneath the covers. As she slipped into slumber, a moonbeam pierced through the windo, illuminating the note.

_We know._


	2. Chapter 2

P'sharra groaned as she slowly awoke. Something was different, and she could sense it; the air smelled different, boggy and slightly salty; she no longer laid in a bed, and the ground was hard and cold; the soft constant murmur of the inn was gone, replace by three uncertain voices, and the steady sound of a knife against wood.

Her eyes fluttered open as she pushed herself upright. P'sharra was in a large room, filled with junk. Broken chairs, shattered tableware, and torn, stained cloth were all scattered about, and a battered bookcase stood in the corner.

Atop the bookcase reclined a woman, utterly relaxed, and whittling. Her face was covered, but her eyes were sharp, sly, and clever. They lit with amusement as they landed on the slightly confused khajiit.

"Sleep well?" she quipped, tossing the chunk of wood aside. The woman was far to cheerful for the situation.

"I'll give you ten seconds to answer my questions," P'sharra drew her dagger as she stood. "Who the fuck are you, and where the hell am I?"

"Don't get your tail in a twist, pussycat," the woman chuckled softly, "You're warm, dry..." She twirled the knife she'd been whittling with. "And still very much alive." She tossed, then caught the blade, sheathing it in one swift move. "Which is more than we can say about Grelod, hmm?"

P'sharra slowly sheathed her dagger, still watching the woman like a hawk. "How did you know about that?"

"Pussycat, half of Skyrim know what happened." The woman chuckled. "Old hag, butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that get around."

The khajiit scowled. "You're saying I'm sloppy?"

"Hardly," the stranger responded. "It was a fine kill. The old bitch had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins, to boot. Rather a personal project, I presume?"

P'sharra shifted uneasily. She didnt like being questioned. "I've spent enough time in orphanages... The children will be far better off with Constance in charge."

"I couldn't agree more," the woman nodded. "But there is a slight... problem."

"There's always a problem, isn't there?" P'sharra shifted were weight, ready to run, or fight, as needed.

"Aretino was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my... associates." The woman leaned forward. "Grelod was, by all rights, a contract of the dark brotherhood. A kill..." her eyes narrowed, "that you stole."

"Frankly, I never thought it was stealing if no one came along to claim it," P'sharra responded blandly, to the assassin's amusement. "So you want to kill me now?"

"And waste such admirable skill? No." The womans eyes grew serious, and slyer. "I want you among us. I want you to make another kill."

The khajiit blinked. "You want me to join the Brotherhood?" She frowned. "To kill again? Who, this time?"

"Funny you should ask, pussycat. Behind you," P'sharra followed the pointing finger, "you'll notice my guests. Let's not question where they came from, only that they are here now." the woman stretched luxuriously. "Someone has called for the death of one of them, you see, and that one cannot leave this room alive. I'll leave you figure out which one, pussycat."

P'sharra studied the three in silence. Two humans and a khajiit. Two men, and one human woman. Crossing behind them she leaned close to the khajiit's ear. "Why would someone want you dead?" she purred.

The male chuckled low. "The real question is, who doesn't want me dead?" He went on about all those who had put prices on his head, all the assassins who failed. P'sharra slipped away to the next target, the lone woman.

This one snapped like an angry wolf, going on about how highly connected she was. P'sharra ignored her rantings and moved to the final man.

He cowered like a whipped dog when she asked her question. He studdered his answers of how he was a sellsword- a mercenary for hire. P'sharra wrinkled her nose in disgust as she circled around to face them all. She drew her blade, and studied the three one last time, before slicing all three throats.

"Impressive," The woman nodded. "Easier to just kill them all, eh?"

"The mercenary was a coward, who didn't deserve to live," P'sharra cleaned, then sheathed her dagger. "The khajiit was clearly wanted by many, so I simply finished what others couldn't."

"I see," The stranger nodded thoughtfully. "And the woman?"

"She was a bitch, and her voice made my ears bleed," P'sharra reponded blithely, to the great amusement of her audience. "Besides, I was doing a favor for her family. If she was the one contracted, ten to one her husband called for it."

"Very well put, pussycat. I'm very impressed with your skills." The woman leaned forward, tossing the key to the room at P'sharra's feet. "I'm prepared to offer you a place in the Brotherhood. If you are willing to accept it?"

P'sharra didn't respond for a moment. She mulled over the possibilities; she'd never considered a career in death, but... "It's certainly appealling."

P'sharra sensed the woman smiling, though her face was covered. "Wonderful. Far south of here, in the Pine Forest of Skyrim, lies the entrance to our Sanctuary. the door is hidden in a small alcove, just beneath the road. The Black Door will speak to you. Answer with, 'Silence, my brother.' And your new life will begin, pussycat."

P'sharra watched the woman fade into the shadows, until even her khajiiti eyes could not find her. P'sharra remained in the silence for some time, pondering the curious circumstances. Finally, she gathered the key from the floor and unlocked the door.

It was still dark. P'sharra remained still until she recognized her surroundings. She was in the Drajkmyr marsh, standing outside the abandoned shack that caught her eye every time she'd been in the area. Her ears flattened in annoyance when she realized how far the Sanctuary was from here.

With a dull growl of annoyance, and a glance at the gloomy, rain-threatening sky, she set off for her destination. She'd barely gone a mile when the skies opened, and the deluge soaked her to the skin.


	3. Chapter 3

The rain had yet to let up.

"Seven fucking hours," P'sharra snarled to herself, wrapping her monk robe tighter in a vain attempt to ward off the wet and cold, "Seven fucking hours on foot, damn near swimming."

Granted, things had been fine, at first. She'd stolen a horse from an imperial camp, but the damn beast had been dumber than a box of rocks. it was most likely floating out to sea via the White River by now.

She was east of Whiterun now, and strongly considering a warm bed at the Bannered Mare. P'sharra glared up at the rain-swollen skies and hissed. By the Eight, how she hated the rain.

She'd noticed a wagon far ahead some ten minutes ago, unmoving. Probably some poor sap of a farmer dragging his waterlogged crops to market in Whiterun. P'sharra allowed her thoughts to return to the concept of a dry, warm bed and a roaring fire.

She was twenty feet away from the wagon when a movement snapped her thoughts back to the present. A reddish lump had been sitting curled against a wheel. Against her better judgment, P'sharra hailed.

The lump jolted, then raised its head to reveal a most peculiar sight: It was a man, clad in fool's cloth. The Jester bounded up, a hopeful, nearly desperate gleam in his eye. His cap, dripping wet, drooped from either side of his head, making him look for all the world like a sad, drenched puppy.

"Is there a problem?" P'sharra barely managed to stifle an errant giggle.

"Ooh, poor Cicero is stuck, can't you see?" His eyes were pleading, and his lip quivered. _Like a child who has fallen from his horse the first time, _P'sharra thought. "I was transporting my dear, sweet mother," he continued, "Well, not her. Her corpse!" He giggled, his eyes glinting. "She's quite dead, you know!"

_Puppy? Child? He's completely mad!_ P'sharra thought._ He's either been sipping too much skooma, or the Madgod has a tight grip on his soul..._

"I was taking mother to a new home, a new crypt, but... AAUUGH!" he screeched suddenly, tugging on the tips of his hat, "Wagon wheel! Damnedest wagon wheel! It broke, it broke, can't you see?" He turned those pleading eyes back on P'sharra.

"Is there something I can do to help?" As mad as he surely was, something about those eyes drew her in.

"Oh, Oh, yes, yes!" Cicero started clapping like an overgrown child. "The pretty kitty can most certainly help!" He pointed towards a nearby farm. "There, there! Talk to Loreius, he has tool, he can help me! "A scowl dropped over his face like a veil. "But he won't. He refuses!"

He turned back, his eyes pleading again. "Convince him, convince Loreius to fix my wheel!" Those mad eyes turned sly. "Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. With coin!" P'sharra's ears perked at the word. "Gleamy, shiny coin! All kitties love shiny coin!"

P'sharra didn't need to be asked twice; she scurried up the hill to the cover of the farmhouse's porch. She beat on the door several times before it opened. A suspicious eye glared out.

"Look," Loreius snapped, "I'm not interested in any of your trinkets and baubles, so get out of here before-"

P'sharra slammed a hand against the door before he could close it. "I'm not with the caravans," she growled. Water was dripping steadily from her nose. "I'm here about the man at the bottom of the hill."

"The jester?" The farmer scowled as he fought against P'sharra for control of the door. Finally, he relented, allowing the khajiit to push the door wider. Loreius was an older man, a redguard. "That nutter has asked me at least five times! I'm not helping the lunatic."

"Hes more than willing to pay for your help," P'sharra began.

"This isn't about money!" the farmer snapped. "I want nothing to do with a man like that. Who knows what he may be hiding in that wagon! Claims it's his dead mother. could be stolen goods, or even skooma! Divines knows he must have had some recently..."

P'sharra growled low. "He's just a crazy little man who want to bury his mother somewhere safe. Her tomb was likely desecrated by grave robbers, and he simply wants her to lie in peace." Her eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't you want the same for your mother?"

Loreius hesitated. "I... I don't..."

"And besides," P'sharra purred, turning on her charm, "The sooner he gets that wheel fixed, the sooner he's up, on his way, and out of your hair."

A few seconds passed; finally, Loreius' shoulders slumped. "You're right," He sighed. "Go and... tell him I'll be there shortly..."

P'sharra smiled widely. "The Divines will smile on your kindness, friend," she purred, slipping back out into the rain.

Cicero was in the same exact spot he'd been standing when P'sharra returned to him, water pouring from his cap in two steady streams. He was amazed at first when P'sharra told him the good news, then danced with joy.

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" he cried joyously, "You have made cicero so happy, so very happy! But more, even more than that, mother thanks you, too!" He dug bothe hands into his pockets and pulled out handfuls of gold.

"Here, here! For your troubles!" He shoved the gold into P'sharra's hands. "Cicero always keeps his promises. Shiny, clinky, gleamy gold for a kind, noble deed! And thank you, thank you, thank you again!"

Pocketing her reward, P'sharra smiled at the odd little man. "I hope we will meet again someday, Cicero."

"Oh, Cicero would like that," he enthused, "Cicero would very much like to see the nice kitty again. Farewell, farewell!" he called as they parted ways.

P'sharra continued through the rain, in a surprisingly better mood. The little man's enthusiasm was contagious, She didn't even notice when she passed the turn to enter Whiterun. Instead, she continued on, passing the dragon-scarred remains of the western watch tower, steadily drawing closer to the next chapter in her life.


	4. Chapter 4

It was dark when she passed through Falkreath. The rain had yet to let up, and P'sharra's patience had run out about three miles ago.

Finally, she found the area the assassin had specified. A short search revealed a large black door, hidden beneath the road at the back of a tiny cave. As she approached it, a horrible voice tore through her mind.

"_What is the music of life?"_

Her ears ringing, P'sharra struggled to remember the words the assassin told her to speak. Finally, they came to her. Leaning close to the door, setting one hand on its icy surface, she whispered, "Silence, my brother."

The door creaked open, as the voice whispered once more in her mind.

"_Welcome home."_

The place was… surprisingly warm. P'sharra's ears folded back as she slipped down the narrow passage, one hand resting against the dagger at her hip.

The entry way opened into a small antechamber. Shelves lined one wall, and a large stone table stood near the opposite wall, next to a closed door. And the assassin lounged in the doorway straight ahead.

"Well, well. I was beginning to wonder, pussycat." The assassin had removed her hood, revealing her to be a Nord woman, with long golden hair. "Hope you didn't have trouble finding the place."

P'sharra snorted. "Finding was not the problem. _Getting_ here is a different story altogether." She ran a hand closed hand down her tail, squeezing the water from her fur as best she could.

"Poor little pussycat," the woman chuckled, straightening. "Lets get you warm and dry, before you meet your new family. By the way, I'm Astrid." She led the Khajiit to the other door, which she opened to reveal a small bedroom.

P'sharra said nothing as Astrid helped her out of the sodden robes. Her mind was on other things.

A family. She had a family again? After so long, she didn't dare to hope. What was the point? Hope was a sad, pathetic feeling that only got in the way, just like love. So why bother with it?

"Are you very partial to… _this?_" Astrid plaintively asked, holding up the battered, drenched robe.

"Yes," P'sharra said flatly. "That robe has… special meaning to me. I took it from the first person I murdered."

"Aah, a trophy, hmm?"

"Of sorts. It also doubles as a disguise." P'sharra told her how she had obtained entry to the orphanage by claiming to be a priestess of Mara.

Astrid let out a deep laugh. "How fitting. Claiming to be a priestess of love, and leaving the so called 'Grelod the Kind' drowning in her own blood. Very well, keep it, but you can at least have a few of these holes repaired." She slung the robe across a chair close to the fire. "We'll let it dry here, for now, though. I' bring it to Gabriella for repair later."

P'sharra shifted uncomfortably as Astrid started digging through a wardrobe. "Here," The Nord stated, drawing a small bundle of red and black leather from the depths of the wardrobe. "This armor will be your uniform. The pieces are all enchanted, and each enchantment is designed with an assassin in mind."

P'sharra was quick to slip into the leather armor. A few moments later, she looked down to study her body, every curve pronounced by the tight leather. Her tail twitched slightly.

"Not bad, pussycat," Astrid remarked approvingly. "I'll just bet you draw in the men."

A low growl echoed from P'sharra's throat. "Any man who tries to touch me forfeits his life."

"And that, my dear, is why you'll fit in just fine here. Now come; it's time to meet your new family."

The second doorway in the antechamber led to a large cavern. A small group was gathered, surrounding a young girl.

"Oh, that story," The girl was saying, then took on a smooth, almost mocking tone, "What a pretty little girl. Would the sweetie like a sweetie?" The girl took on a sweet tone. "Oh, yes, it's been so long since mummy and daddy left, and I'm so hungry. I have some sweets just over here," the girl said, once more taking on the tone that so many adults used with children, "just here, in this alley. Oh, but you are so pretty. Your hair, your eyes, your teeth… wait, your teeth! Aaaaagh!" the girl mimed screaming in terror before throwing her head back in laughter, her mouth wide, revealing long, sharp fangs.

The others joined in laughing, before a pretty Dunmer woman stated, "Oh, Babette, how delightfully vicious you are."

Babette smile in acknowledgement and turned to an elderly looking man. "What about you, Festus? I heard you had a fun one as well."

"Oh, yes," A Nord man drawled sarcastically. "Regale us with your tales of sorcery…"

Festus scowled. "Ah the foolishness of the young, always mocking the wiser and more contract went very well, I'll have you know. I decided to try a new spell on that one, a little thing I've been working on in my spare time." He held up a finger and thumb less than an inch apart. "Came _this_ close to turning that priest inside out." He chuckled. "Damned messy."

The group laughed again, before turning to the burly Nord. "And what of your contract, Arnbjorn?" the Redguard asked. "A Khajiit merchant, wasn't it? With the caravans?"

"How adorable," Babette drawled, "A big, bad doggy chasing a little kitty." The listening crowd erupted in laughter.

"I'm not adorable, it wasn't funny, and it wasn't a merchant," Arnbjorn growled. "It was a Khajiit monk, and he was a master of the Whispering Fang style." A smirk tugged at Arnbjorn's lips. "But now he's dead, and _I_ have a new loincloth."

Raucous laughter bounced off the stone walls as Astrid led P'sharra towards the group. The other assassins glanced over curiously.

"Everyone," Astrid called warmly, "This is our newest family member. Make her feel welcome."

As Astrid left, Babette approached P'sharra. "So, your our new sister. I'm glad to have a new face here."

"You'll forgive me if I'm a bit… standoffish," P'sharra murmured. "It's been a very long time since I last had anything close to a… family." _How strange the word feels on my tongue, _P'sharra thought.

"Don't worry about it. Newcomers often have trouble fitting into family life here," Babette explained. "It's been a long time since we had a Khajiit in the family. About two hundred years, in fact."

"I live to disrupt life," P'sharra offered blandly.

Babette laughed. "I like you," she said. "I hope that we will become good friends."

"Forgive me, but I must ask," P'sharra said hesitantly, "just how long have you been-"

"A vampire?" Babette interrupted. "Don't worry, many family members ask me that. I was given the dark gift three hundred years ago. I was an orphan, living in Anvil. My father had been an Imperial guard, and my mother was in the mages guild. Father died in a fight with some drunkards, and mother died when a spell at the guild went awry."

P'sharra's ears flattened back a bit. "I know what it means to be alone so young."

Babette nodded. "Well, one day when I was eight, I was desperate to get into someplace warm, so I broke into a house near the chapel of Mara. Little did I know the place was haunted. I barely escaped, and as I ran in terror, I stumbled into an elf. He calmed me down, and I told him about my parents. I know, it was foolish to trust him, but I did."

P'sharra said nothing, only waited.

"It wasn't until some time later that I learned he was a vampire. He was good, and kind to me. He adopted me like his own. I was happy; I had a family. But when I was ten, I got sick." Babette sighed. "The healers could do nothing for me. That's when Vicente offered me the gift. I accepted it more than willingly. And the rest, of course, is history." She sighed again. "But, I've spent too much time. I have work that needs to be done. If you even need poisons, or want to learn how to make your own, come and see me." With that, Babette headed up a path to another room.

P'sharra met several other family members and learned their stories. Festus had been with the Collage of Winterhold, but left when he decided they were 'too safe' for his tastes; Veezara was the last Shadowscale, a group of Argonians dedicated to the Dark Brotherhood from birth; Arnbjorn was a werewolf with a short temper, and was Astrid's husband.

The only person P'sharra couldn't get information from was Gabriella. The Dunmer was very secretive, though P'sharra constantly asked her about herself. But she had a grand sense of humor, and she was friendly enough, so after a while, P'sharra let it be.

Nazir was the last she approached. The Redguard had a jovial nature, and an even better sense of humor than Gabriella. He was also in charge of handing out lesser contracts. Once P'sharra had settled into an empty room deep within the sanctuary, she approached Nazir about the contracts.

"Eager to get started, eh?" the Redguard said warmly. "Good, good; that means you're dedicated. Now, I have three contracts that need to be completed. You can take your-"

"I'll take all of them," P'sharra interrupted.

"-choice," Nazir finished with a grin. "Anxious for a little blood, are we? Very well. Here are your targets: Narfi, of Ivarstead, he owed someone a lot of money; Ennodius Papius, works at Anga's Mill, rumor has it he's on the run from something; and Beitild, of Dawnstar, supposedly has quite a few enemies. Eliminate the targets however you wish, and return to me for your payment. And for Sithis' sake, don't get yourself killed!" Nazir added. "The last thing we need is for our newest family member to wind up dead on her first job."

"Understood," P'sharra rasped.

Three days after she'd left, P'sharra slipped back into the warm air of the Sanctuary. She slipped down to the antechamber, but found it empty. Shrugging, she tugged off the monk's robes she'd worn as a disguise and wrung the rain from it as best she could.

She headed for the grotto, intending to set her robes near Arnbjorn's forge to dry, but something near the small pool caught her eye. A tall wooden crate stood just at the edge of the water; the rest of the family had gathered around it, and a familiar, yet unexpected voice rang through the cavern.

"Oh, Cicero is _sooo_ happy to finally be here! And Mother is, too," the jovial little man enthused. As P'sharra approached, she could see him grinning and shaking the hand of a slightly disturbed Astrid. A split second later, he noticed the Khajiit watching with barely contained amusement.

"Oh! OH! It's the nice kitty from the road! The one who helped fix poor Cicero's wheel!" Cicero bounce over and dragged P'sharra into a bone crushing hug, before holding her out at arms length. "You should have told Cicero you were his Sister," he chided.

"Wait, wait," Astrid interrupted, turning to look at P'sharra, "You've met him before?"

Astrid may have missed the deadly expression on Cicero's face, but P'sharra did not. "I met him on the road," the Khajiit explained carefully. "His wagon wheel had broken, so I convinced a farmer to fix it." To Cicero, she added, "I didn't know you were a Brother, Cicero."

"One way or another, Cicero," Astrid growled, turning to the now smiling man with a scowl, "_I _am the leader of _this_ Sanctuary. The Night Mother is welcome here, and, as her Keeper, so are you. Just remember who is in charge."

"Oh, _yes,_ mistress! You're the boss!" Cicero simpered.

Turning to P'sharra, she added, "If you've completed Nazir's contracts, let him know and get some rest. Once you're done, come and see me. I have a special contract ready for you."

As the other assassins left, P'sharra's sharp ears caught Cicero's muttered words. "Oh, yes, _mistress_. _You're the boss… for now…"_


	5. Chapter 5

Markarth was a nice place, all things considered.; it was certainly dry, which pleased P'sharra to no end. The guards left something to be desired, though.

Upon entering the town, a stall selling gems and jewelry drew her attention. As she gazed at the glittering baubles, another woman stepped up to the stall, her eyes on a glittering jeweled pendant.

"Oh… that would be perfect for my sis-" The woman's words were cut off as a man lunged at her from behind, burying a rusty dagger into her back.

P'sharra's instincts had sent her dodging out of the way, and now, with her adrenaline running high, she whipped her own blade out and faced the murderer, snarling viciously. The madman lunged at her clumsily; she made very quick work of him.

The guards only now approached, claiming that they had it all under control from the beginning; annoyed at their attitudes, but mostly uncaring, P'sharra glanced at her map, and headed deeper into the city. She'd barely taken three steps before someone bumped heavily into her, knocking the map from her hand.

"Oop, sorry," he muttered hastily, stooping to grab the parchment from the path, "I wasn't paying attention." He handed the map back to her and continued on his way before she could say a word.

P'sharra frowned, but ultimately ignored the strange man; she'd met far stranger in her life. Like Cicero. As she wandered Markarth, familiarizing herself with the ancient dwarven city, she reflected on the odd little man.

He was mad as a hatter; there was no denying that fact. He was clearly devoted to the Night Mother, an entity P'sharra admitted she knew next to nothing about.

He seemed ecstatic about being among the family; it was possible that wherever the Night Mother had been, it was a very lonely place. And finally, he seemed very distrustful of Astrid. The feeling, of course, was mutual as far as Astrid was concerned; make no mistake, the Keeper was kept under close watch by the head of their dysfunctional little family, as Nazir like to call them.

Frankly, Cicero amused her to no end; the fact that he had infuriated Astrid in mere hours of his arrival with his jovial manner had left P'sharra struggling to maintain her normally grim attitude.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, she continued on exploring.

Within an hour, P'sharra knew Markarth as well as she did the Sanctuary. She paused to rest on some steps near the Hall of the Dead. The Hall was a strange concept to P'sharra; she was used to burying people, not sticking their corpses in buildings so people can look at them.

As she rested her feet and slaked her thirst from a wineskin, the sound of arguing came to her ears; it seemed a local family was having trouble entering the Hall to acknowledge their ancestors, or whatever it was these fool Nords did. P'sharra waited until the Nords left before approaching the priest they had been threatening.

"Why can't they understand that I am doing this for their own good?" he muttered, looking towards the heavens.

"Problem with the locals?" P'sharra asked, coming up behind him.

The priest jolted and spun around, then sighed with relief when he saw that is was only a Khajiit. "Forgive me, sister. You startled me."

"No worries," P'sharra purred. "Now, what is it that has you so jumpy? Does it have something to do with those… _fine_gentlemen who just left?"

The priest smiled thinly. "Somewhat. They are angry with me for refusing to let them visit their ancestors. It's… not safe just now."

"And why is that?" P'sharra purred; when the priest hesitated, she added, "Perhaps I could help you, brother…"

"Verulus. And as much as I appreciate the offer, it could be very dangerous." the priest looked torn between wanting her help and his desire to protect.

"I live for danger," P'sharra offered silkily. "Surely it can't be worse than dealing with bandits?"

Brother Verulus sighed. "All right. But don't say I didn't try to warn you. It seems something has been, well… _eating_the dead in the Hall."

P'sharra blinked. "Eating the dead? I can see how you'd be worried about that. Why don't I take a look, see what I can find, hmm?"

"Ah… well, I supposed it couldn't hurt…" the priest admitted, reaching into his pocket and drawing a key.

The words had barely left his mouth before P'sharra snatched the key from his hand; in the blink of an eye, she was at the door to the Hall, twisting the key and shoving the heavy door open.

Slipping into the cool darkness of the Hall, P'sharra reflected on her decision to help; it was rare for her to offer assistance freely, but this had piqued her curiosity. The Nords were obsessive when preserving the dead, to the point of encasing corpses in a rare form of ice known as stalhrim.

The very concept of something willing to attack that obsession sent P'sharra's curiosity into overdrive; she had to know what was behind this.

Slowly, she skulked through the dark, dry, silent hall, her pupils wide, and her nose flared; all her senses her on high alert as she came upon the most recent 'victim' of this corpse eater.

The corpse was a fresh one, a few days old or a week at most. What caught P'sharra's eye was the fact that the flesh hadn't been torn or gnawed off; rather, it looked like it had been sliced away from the body with a sharp knife. _That rules out skeevers,_she thought.

Moving deeper into the crypt, P'sharra discovered the biggest pieces of evidence; a bedroll and several sacks, as well as a plate, loaded with human flesh. The sight of it unexpectedly set P'sharra's mouth watering.

"You were young when you first tasted human flesh, weren't you?" a voice boldly stated behind P'sharra, causing her to snap around and find herself face to face with a Breton. "A brother, or perhaps a sister, who died?" Unexpected memories whispered in the Khajiit's mind. "An accident, of course," the woman purred.

"No," P'sharra whispered. "Murder."

The Breton smiled. "You have found a friend who understands you, now," she whispered. "You can let go of your guilt. You don't have to hide it anymore."

The memory of human flesh sliding down P'sharra's throat enticed her, and the desire for more spurred her on. "I… want it again," she murmured softly. "I want more, but…"

"You don't need to hide it anymore," the woman whispered in P'sharra's ear, sliding her arms around the Khajiit's shoulders. "Namira, the lady of rot, decay, and repulsion, accepts us, and you, for what we are. She has made a place for us, where we can sate our hunger away from judgmental eyes."

"A place…"P'sharra shook herself from her thoughts. "Then why are you here? The Nords are pissed that Verulus won't let them into the Hall."

The woman sighed in annoyance. "Trust me, I'm not here by choice. Our sanctuary, where we feed, has been desecrated, overrun with draugr. We cannot gather with them wandering the halls." She gazed at P'sharra thoughtfully. "Though, perhaps, with some help…"

"I'm good at killing," P'sharra murmured. "Draugr are little threat to me. I will eliminate them with ease."

"Wonderful." The Breton smiled viciously. "The sanctuary is within Reachcliff Cave. And tell the priest that the hall is safe to enter."

"I could claim skeevers." P'sharra considered for a moment. "You'd better tear the flesh on the corpses. Skeever bites are rarely that clean."

The Breton nodded. "I will await you at the cave." and with that she slipped into the shadows.

P'sharra hissed in annoyance as she slipped out into the sunlit streets; she'd forgotten how bright it was outside. Once her eyes readjusted, she spotted Verulus standing in the shade; as soon as he'd spotted her, he trotted swiftly in her direction.

"Skeevers," She stated before he could speak. "A clan of them. They got in through a large crack in one of the walls. I eliminated them, and disposed of the corpses."

"Thank you," Verulus said with gratitude. "I can't tell you how much you've helped me." He drew an Arkaian amulet from within his robes. At P'sharra's questioning gaze, he explained, "I wouldn't dream of letting you go without a proper reward."

"Well, when you put it that way…" P'sharra accepted the amulet, thinking to sell it first chance she got.

She headed off in search of her contact, a woman by name of Muiri; P'sharra found her working in the Hag's Cure, an apothecary near the Hall of the Dead. Walking in, the stench of mingled ingredients and reagents was like a punch to the face; thankfully, it took little time to find her target, working the counter.

At P'sharra's approach, Muiri looked up, and said, "Oh… welcome to the Hag's Cure. Was there something I can… help…" she trailed off, disconcerted at how P'sharra stared. "Wh-why are you looking at me like that?"

P'sharra leaned over the counter, lowering her voice to a whisper. "The Brotherhood has come, Muiri."

The woman frowned in confusion. "The.. Oh. Oh! You're- you're really here! The sacrament worked!" She called to an old woman stocking shelves, then led P'sharra in a store room. "forgive me, I-I'm just excited, I didn't think you'd really-"

"The contract, girl," P'sharra cut in smoothly. "I need to know who you want me to end."

"Oh. Oh of course. Forgive me." Muiri ran a hand through her hair. "I want Alain Dufont _dead!_"

"I need information, girl," P'sharra hissed. "Unless you can give me an explanation, he will continue to live."

Muiri sighed deeply, then told the whole story. She told of how she had been visiting the Shatter-Shield clan, who had recently lost a daughter to a serial killer. She'd been drowning her sorrows when Alain approached her, with sweet words and kind gestures, and convinced her he was in love. But it had been a lie; he used Muiri as a steppingstone to rob the Shatter-Shields blind.

"And now, the Shatter-Shields want nothing to do with me," Muiri hissed. "They think I _wanted_to make them suffer! So Alain must die." She took a steadying breath. "He can be found in the Dwarven ruin Ralbthar. He's a bandit leader, so his band will likely be there as well." Muiri hesitated, then added, "There's something more. If you'd be willing to go after another person, I'll make it worth your while."

"I'm listening," P'sharra replied.

'I- I want revenge on the Shatter-Shields, as well," Muiri blurted out. "If- if Tova no longer sees me as a daughter, then I want to make sure that she has none at all! I want you to kill her daughter, Nilsene."

The Khajiit considered this. "I have no qualms killing another, but perhaps I could change this Tova's mind about you."

Muiri scoffed. "Feel free to try, but if she doesn't, I want Nilsene dead. I- I was going to do it myself, you know. I even made a special poison for the job." She turned to a cupboard and drew from its depths two small vials. "But I lost my nerve. You can use these. Lotus extract; just coat a blade or an arrow with it, and… well, you get the idea."

P'sharra took the vials, and slipped them into her cloak. With a murmured farewell, she slipped from the Hag's Cure, and made her way out of Markarth; after a moments thought, she decided to make a side trip.

It was time to cleanse a sanctuary of Draugr.


	6. Chapter 6

P'sharra slipped out of the now empty Dwemer ruin. Her tongue combed across the fur of her muzzle, drawing out every possible drop of blood. Still, the fur was dyed red.

P'sharra thought back to the events of the past two days. Convincing the priest to follow her to Reachcliff had been pathetically easy; there were few people, Man or Mer, who could resist her persuasive purr.

Eola, the woman P'sharra met in the hall of the dead, had taken it from there, luring him to the alter of Namira, convincing him to lie down upon it. She'd then offered P'sharra the kill, to which the Khajiit willingly obliged; hat earned her the first bite, an action that sent shudders through P'sharra's fur even now.

Now, the first part of her contract was complete: Alain Dufont lay dead, his body and those of the rest of his band torn to pieces to satisfy P'sharra's hunger.

She made her way to Windhelm once again, but she didn't go after Nilsene immediately; instead, she sought out the matriarch of the Shatter-Shields, Tova. In the late evening, she found the Nord woman sitting on a bench in the graveyard, weeping dully.

"What troubles you, mistress?" P'sharra asked, her voice harsh from the cold air.

Tova jumped, then calmed to annoyance as she noticed the Khajiit. "I have lost my daughter to a murderer."

P'sharra murmured her condolences, then mentioned how being with friends helps to ease such pain.

Tova barked out a bitter laugh. "Friends? Like that Muiri bitch? To think I trusted her, only to have her help that damned bandit make off with all we had of value."

"She mentioned something about that," P'sharra replied, digging into her pack.

"What? You _know_ that harlot?" In a flash, Tova's expression went from one of grief to one of rage, and disgust; her next insult was cut off, however, as the massive war-hammer thudded dully against the snow covered cobblestone. "That- that's-" the Nord woman gasped.

"I took it from Dufont, after I killed him," P'sharra murmured. "At Muiri's request."

"She…" The Shatter-Shield matriarch was at a complete loss for words.

"He tricked her with comforting words," P'sharra purred, "before he robbed her blind, as he did you. Muiri could care less about the money or jewels, but he also took the one thing she truly valued- your trust."

"She… hired you?" Tova asked. "To kill him?"

"I am but a simple wanderer," P'sharra lied, "but my heart aches at the thought of such cruelty. I'd have taken his life for free, but Muiri insists on thanking me. I assumed the hammer was yours; I couldn't imagine any other weapon for a clan named Shatter-Shield."

As P'sharra made to leave, Tova reached out a hand to stop her. "Please," the old woman begged, "I-I cannot tell you what this means to me, to my family. Please, let me repay you."

"I have little interest in trinkets or coin from you," the Khajiit said, "but I would ask you to reconsider your opinion about Muiri."

"I… need some time to think. Will you remain in Windhelm?" Tova asked.

"I will stay for the night, at the inn." P'sharra considered the older woman. "I intend to leave by noon tomorrow."

The next morning dawned cold and bright. P'sharra had gone without the night before; she hoped to leave Windhelm long before noon, so as to feast on the way back to the sanctuary. But she promised the old woman she would wait, and so she would.

The morning sky was clear and the cold air as crisp as a fresh apple; the Khajiit ignored it for the most part, preferring to wander the tiny marketplace, listening to rumors.

There were already whispers of the Brotherhood's return to power; there was mention of the haggard beggar found dead in his bedroll from the cold, of the mill worker upriver whose throat had been torn out by "wolves," and the vicious mink of a mine foreman who had been buried when her own mine collapsed.

P'sharra knew better, of course. She alone knew the truth behind the deaths, for the simple fact that she had caused them; she'd strangled the beggar, tore the worker's throat out herself, and weakened the wooden support beams in the mine, ensuring the wretched woman's death.

All jobs well done, and well rewarded; P'sharra found herself with more coin in her pocket than she'd had in the past five years combined. She intended to make good use of it, gathering provisions as she found them. She freely lusted after the abandoned home of the girl who'd been murdered, whose death had brought P'sharra here in the first place; the old house was large, and P'sharra likely wouldn't furnish or use the whole space, but it did not stop her from wanting.

She also learned the fate of the boy who'd unknowingly set her on the path she now walked; Aventus Aretino had returned to the Honorhall Orphanage only a few days after Grelod had died. P'sharra was glad for the boy; she owed him a great deal, and hoped he found a new family soon.

She lingered in the city 'til the sun was nearly overhead. With a huff of annoyance, P'sharra decided she could wait no longer for the old woman, and made her way to the great gates that led out of the city.

She'd just set her hand on the massive wooden door when the voice came to her; with a sigh, P'sharra turned to face Tova as the old woman trotted up to her, puffing slightly from exertion.

"You… are going back to the girl?" the older woman asked. "To Muiri?"

P'sharra nodded. "I must collect my reward, if I intend to make a living."

"Please," the Nord muttered, pressing a package and a scroll into P'sharra's hands, "bring these to her, please."

"As you wish, mistress," the Khajiit murmured deferentially, and bid the woman good-bye.

The return journey had been surprisingly enjoyable; several bandit clans had foolishly attacked the seemingly helpless Khajiit, and she had feasted royally on their flesh after. Her muzzle grew redder with each meal; she favored her prey to be as fresh as possible, and on several occasions, had begun well before her prey had breathed his last.

Now, finally, P'sharra had made it back to the Dwarven-built city, and made her way through the bustling thoroughfare. She met eyes with several of her fellow feasters; Argni Red-Arm had complimented her well fed form, and asked just where she'd been getting her meat. "One never knows just what riches the bandit scourge amass in Skyrim," she'd answered, with a telling smile.

She made her way to the Hag's Cure and slipped in, to find Muiri waiting for her. P'sharra browsed the shop as she waited for the young woman to finish with a few customers. As the last slipped out, P'sharra approached under the claim of purchasing ingredients. They had a fine stock of daedra hearts, and the Khajiit clean them out; Babette had complained wistfully about getting her hands on some.

Muiri led her to the back room again. "I heard about Alain, but-"

P'sharra silenced her with a gesture, and handed her the scroll and package.

Muiri scowled with impatience as she ripped open the scroll and began to read. By the time she was halfway through, her eyes had softened; by the end, tears slid silently down her cheeks.

"She… I don't know how you did it, but she's forgiven me," Muiri whispered. "I… I don't know what to say…" She opened the packet, and had to choke back a sob as a beautiful ruby and gold amulet fell into the woman's hand.

"This… was Friga's. It was one of her prized possessions, and… and she's left it to me." Muiri looked up at P'sharra and smiled weakly. "I owe you far more than I'd planned. But, I think I might have something…" She slipped into a storeroom, and came out with a chest large enough to hold a skull. She help it out to P'sharra.

The Khajiit frowned slightly, then opened the chest. Her ears fell flat against her skull as she drew the massive piece of flesh out, and stared at it.

"It's a dragon heart." Muiri peeked out; the shopkeeper had her hands full with more customers. Turning back to P'sharra, she continued. "A traveler came looking to sell it. I though I'd have time to examine it, but it's been so busy, with the war…" She set the heart back into its case. "I want you to take it."

"I could never take so valuable an offer," P'sharra murmured, though she could just see giving it to Babette; the little vampress' expression alone would be worth the extra weight.

"Please, if it stays here it'll just rot away!" Muiri begged. "At the least, you could sell it at the wizard's collage for a hefty sum!"

P'sharra huffed out a sigh. "Very well," she said. "I've a friend who would be utterly thrilled with this, as it happens."

Three days of steady riding found P'sharra deep in the pine woods once more. As she slipped into the small grove that hid the entrance to the Sanctuary, she raised her head and scented the air; Imperials had been through, but the scent was a day old, at least.

Satisfied that the Sanctuary was safe, she whispered the password against the black door, and slipped inside.

Astrid nodded, albeit with a surly look, when P'sharra told her of the contract and kill. Slipping deeper into the Sanctuary, she hunted around and found Babette, cooing to the small snow spider she kept as a pet. She turned as the Khajiit approached. "So, your contract went well, I presume?" her nose twitched. "I can smell blood on you, but… differently."

"You could say that I've rediscovered a forgotten part of me," P'sharra murmured. "I've brought you some gifts, little sister."

Babette smiled at the nickname. "Ooo, have you brought me some sweeties?" she asked, in mock innocence.

"Better," P'sharra replied, setting the daedra hearts on the table.

The child-like vampress certainly acted like a child receiving candy, and her eyes had widened as her Khajiit friend set the dragon's heart down and told her what it was.

"I will start working with this immediately," Babette promised, before handing P'sharra two small bottles. "You know Astrid doesn't approve," she warned.

"Don't care," P'sharra rasped, eyeing the skooma bottles closely. She bid goodbye to the vamp, and made her way to the far back room.

Vaguely noting a spare bed had been added to the room, P'sharra settled into her own bed, and slowly sipped the potent drug. As her pupils dilated, she leaned back against the wall as the skooma eased her into a deep slumber.


	7. Chapter 7

"Sister, Astrid is looking for you."

P'sharra cracked an eye in annoyance and glared at Nazir, who wisely stayed out of her reach; only a fool dared to wake her in close quarters, as she habitually took a swipe at anyone who waked her.

This time, however, the skooma was still in her system, and her mood was far better than normal. She pushed herself up, pausing only to disentangle her tail from the blankets she'd been wrapped in. Her mind flashed back to the night before, and a slight smile tugged at her muzzle as she recalled Cicero gently tugging the blankets over her.

The mad jester was nowhere in sight as she made her way to the small pond in the grotto; she crouched, scooping up the cool water and drinking deeply before continuing on in search of the mistress of the sanctuary.

Astrid was pacing in her usual room- the antechamber of the sanctuary. "Good," the Nord muttered, "You're here. I need you for an extremely important job."

"I am here to serve, Mistress," P'sharra replied with a sardonic smile, which earned her a frown from Astrid, who demolished P'sharra's mood with her next words.

"I think Cicero is trying to turn the Brotherhood against me." At the Khajiit's frown, she elaborated. "He's becoming increasingly erratic, he locks himself in with the Night Mother's coffin for hours at a time, and I hear him whispering to someone."

"He's mad," P'sharra pointed out. "He's mad as a Sheogorath, and he is completely dedicated to the Night Mother. And _you_ are being paranoid."

"Perhaps," Astrid acknowledged, "but paranoia was saved this Sanctuary -and the Brotherhood- more than once. I want you to find a way to listen in on Cicero when he locks himself in."

"You want me to spy on a sad little man in fool's garb who is probably just talking to himself because he's insane." P'sharra sighed. "And how do you propose I do this?"

"Well," Astrid said, a sly gleam in her eye, "there is _one_ place in that room that you could hid where he'd never think to look. Dark, close-"

"Oh, no," the Khajiit cut her off, her ears flat against her skull. "No, no, there is _no_ way. You are asking me to desecrate the Night Mother's tomb? You aren't paranoid- you're _insane."_

"I am the Mistress of this Sanctuary," the Nord said dangerously, "Here, my word is _law. _You will do as I say, or die. Understand?"

P'sharra growled deep in her throat, but backed away submissively. "As you wish…. _Mistress."_

Cicero, she'd discovered, was bopping around in the dining area, annoying Nazir. It was painfully easy to slip into the room with him gone.

The Night Mother's coffin stood in front of the stained glass relief that represented Sithis. It was locked, but the tumblers gave way easily to the Khajiit's lockpick. As the coffin swung open, P'sharra bit off a gasp of shock.

The Night Mother's body was small. Her flesh was withered, and her mouth was open in a silent scream. Her eyes were closed and sunken, the sockets long empty. Wisps of ancient black hair clung to her skull, and threadbare fabric hung from her shrunken form.

P'sharra shivered as she gazed at the Night Mother; cozying up to a corpse was not exactly the Khajiit's idea of a good time, but her time had run out.

"Cicero must return to the Night Mother now!" the jester's voice shouted from frighteningly nearby. P'sharra flung herself into the coffin, tugging it closed around her.

There was just room enough for P'sharra to keep from being pressed against the Night Mother's body. She heard the doors open and shut, and Cicero's soft, bubbly humming. "Are we alone?" Cicero whispered with a giggle. "Yes, sweet, sweet solitude! Just Cicero and his sweet Mother…"

He jabbered on, talking about his failures in finding the Listener, and voiced his frustration with the Night Mother, only to retract it as quickly as he'd said it. It was swiftly clear to P'sharra that Cicero was speaking only to the Night Mother, and that Astrid's suspicions were misplaced. As she listened, she found herself feeling sorry for the Imperial.

_Poor, sweet Cicero…_ a voice whispered in the Khajiit's ear. _So dedicated… so devoted._

P'sharra blinked. That couldn't have been…

_He will never hear my voice… but you… You shall be the answer to his desperate prayers…_

P'sharra stared at the shrunken face before her.

_Go to him…. Speak the words he is so desperate to hear… "Darkness rises when silence dies." now go… travel to Volunruud… seek out Amound Motierre, and accept his contract… as my Listener._

P'sharra let out a strangled gasp; there was a split second of silence, then the coffin was wrenched open, and Cicero's enraged shriek split the air.

"_**DEFILER!"**_ he screamed, his face contorted with rage. _**"HOW DARE YOU DESECRATE THE NIGHT MOTHER'S COFFIN?! YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!" **_He yanked an ebony dagger from his belt and advanced on P'sharra.

The Khajiit scrambled back, resting a hand against her own blade as she said, "Cicero, listen to me, she spoke! She spoke to me, and told me I am the Listener!"

The mad jester paused, anger and uncertainty warring on his face. "She spoke- to you? Why should I believe you, defiler?" he hissed.

"She told me to speak the words," she said quickly, her sharp ears catching the raised voices of the other assassins as they drew closer, drawn by the jester's screech. "She said, 'darkness rises when silence dies.' I swear, Cicero."

"Darkness rises," Cicero whispered, a look of awe on his face, "when silence dies? But-but those are the words, the _binding words,_ written in the keeping tomes!" his face split into a grin, as tears of joy began to run down his cheeks; he snatched up P'sharra in a back-popping hug. "She has spoken- finally! And she has spoken to _you,_ she has chosen you as her Listener! Oh, glorious day!"

The doors flung open, and Astrid raced into the room, blade readied. "Hold it right there," she yelled, as Cicero leapt behind P'sharra with a squeal. "What's happened," Astrid directed at P'sharra, "I heard him yell. Who has he been talking to?"

"Cicero has been talking only to the Night Mother, Mistress," the jester simpered, an ugly look on his face as he glared at Astrid.

"It's true," P'sharra confirmed.

"Mother has never answered poor Cicero, but now she _has_ spoken, to her!" he squealed, pointing at the Khajiit. "She has chosen the kind kitty as her Listener!"

"Wait," Astrid said slowly, confused. "You mean he was talking to the Night Mother… but she only talks to you?" she asked P'sharra.

"That's about what I got," the Khajiit shrugged. "She told me to seek out a man called Amound Motierre, in a place called Volunruud."

Cicero's eyes bulged with manic joy. "Already, the listener has an assignment!" he squealed.

"Not so fast, fool," Astrid snapped, earning a dark look from the jester. _"I_ am the leader of this sanctuary, so _I_ decide who takes what contract."

"So what is your command?" P'sharra rasped in annoyance; she was distinctly starting to dislike the Nord woman.

"I- I don't know," Astrid admitted. "I need time. To think, and to decide. You," she said, looking to P'sharra, "go speak with Nazir. He will give you some lesser contracts to keep you busy until I've come up with a decision."

P'sharra growled low, but nodded. It would be beyond foolish to speak against Astrid for now, but in the future…

P'sharra stomped in through the Black Door, drenched and wearing a look that promised a very painful death to the soul who tangled with her. The rain had returned as she'd left Morthal after completing her last contract, an Orc who fancied himself a bard.

"I see it's raining again," Nazir commented as the Khajiit stalked into the open kitchen, yanking off the soaked, threadbare robes she habitually wore outside of the Sanctuary. She let out a low, guttural growl, the sort that would make even the fiercest of warriors hesitate.

"Easy, girl," the Redguard said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I only say that because I haven't left the Sanctuary since you left, yourself. I trust your contracts went well?"

"Pah," P'sharra spat, "I didn't even get a _chance_ at Hern. Dragon showed up, burned the mill to ash. Managed to get their dust for Babette, though."

I'm sure she'll be happy to know you were thinking of her," Nazir replied with a smile. "And Lurbuk?"

"See, that one is a funny story," she replied, pocketing the small satchel of drakes Nazir had handed to her. "Inn keeper caught me right after I buried the knife in the fool Orc's throat."

"Oh, no," Nazir intoned, a worried look on his face. "You had to kill the innkeeper, too?"

"Not at all." At Nazir's puzzled expression, she went on, "He took one look at the corpse, looked me dead in the eye, and _thanked_ me."

"No!" Nazir stared at her, deadpanned. "Was he the client?"

"Not to my knowledge. Apparently, the orc was so horrible at singing, half the town was considering poisoning his mead. I liked what the innkeeper said before I left, though."

"And what's that?" Nazir pressed.

"He said it was a downright shame that Lurbuk had gotten so drunk and fallen on his knife."

Nazir roared with laughter. "Oh, that's rich," he gasped, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "You have to tell the others that one."

"Mmm, maybe when Astrid isn't present," P'sharra muttered. "Seems like the sort of thing that would provoke her paranoia."

"Perhaps. Here's your coin for the Lurbuk job. I've added a little bonus, just for the story," Nazir said, sliding another satchel and a steel dagger across the table.

P'sharra frowned as she studied the dagger. "I have a better blade than this…"

"True, but this one is special." Nazir pointed to the tip, where a tiny hole was situated just off from the point. "This dagger has a hollow in the hilt, that can be filled with poison. Just stick the tip in your target and squeeze the hilt. Good for low-key jobs."

P'sharra looked at the dagger again, this time seeing a new potential in it. "Very nice. Barely have to nick the skin, eh?"

"You got it, Sister," Nazir chuckled. "By the way, Astrid was looking for you again."

"Lovely," the Khajiit sighed. I suppose she's come to a decision…"

"Hmm?" Nazir gave her a perplexed look.

"I'll explain later," P'sharra replied quickly; obviously, Astrid hadn't told anyone the details about Cicero's little screaming fit.

Nazir shrugged. "All right. You'd better get a move on; you know how Astrid hates waiting."

"Good, you're here." Astrid had been leaning over a map of Skyrim when P'sharra approached her. Now, she looked up at the Khajiit, looking distinctly ruffled and sleep deprived. "I've made up my mind. Go to Volunruud, find this Motierre, and get the contract he offers."

"So, have you accepted the Night Mother's wishes?" P'sharra asked, earning a black look from the Nord.

"Let me be perfectly clear, _Sister." _Astrid glared at her. "I don't care _what_ you or the fool says. _I_ am the law in this sanctuary. _I_ choose the contracts, _I_ decide who goes where, and _I_ give the orders. Understood?"

P'sharra's tail twitched irritably, but she kept her expression blank. "As you say, mistress."

"Good," the Nord muttered, turning her back on the Khajiit. "Now get out of here. And don't screw this up."


End file.
